Falling
by kali82
Summary: Grant Ward does his best to prove he's everybody's type.
1. BioSpecialist

Written for RarePair Fest 2014, for angelette. The usual disclaimers apply - not my toys, just borrowing. Also, watch out for vaguely implied polyamory and lots of angst.

Chapter 1 is Biospecialist and Chapter 2 is FitzWard, taking place during Season 1. Can be read individually.

Chapter 3 is complicated and takes place post-finale.

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* * *

><p>"I won't let you fall"<p>

Jemma's rational mind understood exactly what Ward was doing: a time-honored practice of reassurance and distraction that allowed him to persuade her into an action she didn't want to do. He was really good at it. Not surprising, that. As a specialist, he would have used this technique on dozens – perhaps hundreds – of targets to achieve S.H.I.E.L.D.'s aims.

Her irrational mind, however, was caught up in his calm, gently teasing voice. The same voice that had told her "It's okay, I've got you," as his arms wrapped around her, arresting her fall. The same voice that had repeated "You're safe now, you're not sick, it's okay," as she sobbed salty tears into a saltier ocean. The same voice that smiled at her even as his face remained expressionless.

Jemma thought that she might have a bit of a thing (as Skye would say) for Ward's voice.

* * *

><p>"You took a bit of a tumble, didn't you?"<p>

Jemma's sharp sarcasm was meant to hide her shock at the extent of Ward's injuries. Clearly, she failed, because he placed his hand over hers and gave a reassuring squeeze.

"Nothing you can't fix," he said, ducking his head to look her in the eyes.

Jemma stared back, comforted but still somehow uncomfortable. Ward had a paradoxical effect on her these days: putting her at ease in a general sense but on edge in a very personal one.

"Well of course." Fitz's irritable voice broke the moment. "If she can cure alien viruses, she can fix a few bumps and bruises. This Night-Night gun, on the other hand... What did you do? Jump up and down on it?"

She felt Ward's fingers tighten around hers. His face, however, stayed placid.

"Nah, it never made it out of the holster. Just got in the way of a couple good kicks."

Jemma looked over at the mangled weapon and what she saw had her reaching for the scissors. A few quick snips revealed the horrible truth.

"Oh, Ward."

Lurid bruises were just beginning to rise to full bloom. She palpated gently and winced in sympathy as Ward shifted aware from her prodding.

"Soft tissue damage only," she reassured him (herself? She wasn't sure). "I've got an ointment for that."

"That's what I was hoping to hear." Ward's smile was in his voice and eyes, even though his lips barely quirked. "I knew I would be in good hands."

She glanced down involuntarily and took in the sight of her pale fingers spread across his bruised-darkened skin. Looking up, she saw that his attention was also on her hands. Her fingers flexed against his serratus anterior, brushing his hip bone. She heard his breath stutter, and she froze, afraid she might have hurt him. Then he tipped his head up to meet her eyes. There was an intensity in his gaze that brought warmth to her cheeks. To other places, too, she acknowledged.

"Jemma," he began, his voice a quiet rumble. "I want..."

She never found out what he wanted, thanks to Fitz choosing that moment to remove the Night-Night gun's chambered round by discharging it into his thigh.

* * *

><p>Jemma let gravity take over and pull her to ground. She rolled onto her back and panted for breath. Loose strands of hair stuck to her sweaty neck, and she scratched at them irritably.<p>

"Had enough?"

Jemma sighed deeply and looked up at Ward. He was smirking at her.

"We can stop, if that's what you want," he offered.

"What I want is to learn how to defend myself in the field." She pushed herself up to her hands and knees, then to her feet. "If that means we keep doing this, that's what we're going to do."

"Well, one lesson you'd better learn is how to stand up without turning your back on your opponent. I could have taken you out any number of ways just then."

Jemma huffed irritably. "Fine, then. Show me how to stand up. I think I've covered falling down pretty thoroughly."

Ward's smirk softened. He placed his hands on her shoulders. "You know you don't have to do this, Jemma. This is why May and I are here."

"I need to know I can take care of myself."

"Don't you trust me to protect you?"

"You can't always be there, Grant. And I prefer to take care of myself."

"So you don't have rely on me?" He stepped back, his hands dropping to hang by his sides.

"That's not it. I do trust you to keep me safe, to keep the team safe," Jemma reached out to take his hand. "I rely you to know what to do with things go bad. But you know me, I need to know something inside and out before I can be comfortable with it."

"Well, you must know me pretty well, then. You've certainly given me a thorough going-over once or twice." Ward waggled his eyebrows suggestively, tension abandoned.

"Oh, hush," Jemma squeezed his fingers before letting go. "If you'd stop getting attacked by technology of indeterminate origin, I wouldn't have to examine you so often."

"I'm not saying I mind." Ward stepped back into her personal space and took both her hands. "In fact, I'd be up for more private examinations," he said, his voice low, "if that's something you'd be interested in."

Jemma stared at him in shock for a moment, before starting to giggle. "Did you just ask me to 'play doctor' with you, Grant?"

For a moment, Ward's face was a textbook illustration of embarrassment, but it quickly passed. He grinned down at her, his cheeks slightly pink.

"It sounded more sexy in my head?" he offered. "I do mean it, though. I like you, Jemma. I think we could have something together."

She had to admit it was very flattering, his somewhat muddled offer. It was also hard to ignore how appealing the idea was, as he stood before her in a singlet and trunks. Somehow, he made sweaty look, and even smell, sexy.

"I understand if you think that this, us, might make things complicated." Ward's voice pulled her back from her examination of his trapezius.

"I don't believe that relationships have to be complicated," Jemma replied honestly. "My advisor at the Academy always told me to keep sexual relationships clean and simple until I was certain of my emotions. It was good advice: I need to keep a clear head for work."

"That sounds very sensible." Ward's surprise was poorly hidden. "As long as you're sure about this. I wouldn't want to hurt you."

"Oh, I'm capable of judging the risk of that for myself." She found herself examining his physique in a distinctly non-medical way. "When I choose to care for someone, I accept the possibility of them hurting me. And if my heart gets bruised, I'll survive it and learn from it."

"You're really something, Jemma." Ward's smile caused an unexpected warmth to crash through her.

"Yes, well, I have thought this through quite thoroughly," she explained. When his eyebrow quirked up she stammered "not this this, exactly. I haven't been thinking of you. I mean, not like this." She closed her eyes and mentally counted to three. "I have put the requisite thought into how I approach non-platonic relationships. It seemed prudent, given the complexity of my life and work."

"Very prudent," Ward teased.

"Oh, get stuffed," Jemma said. "Besides, what about you? Aren't you worried about the possibility of complications?"

Ward shrugged expressively. "I know how to avoid complicated."

"Of course you do, James Bond." She rolled her eyes. "You want to know if I trust you, if I am worried about having feelings for you, and there you are: unreadable and unknowable. I have to wonder if you trust anybody."

* * *

><p>Jemma lay on her side, wedged between the wall of her bunk and Grant's wide, warm body. She idly traced designs on his chest: simple compounds, surgical incision paths. He shifted sleepily and stilled her hand with one of his, turning his head to smile at her.<p>

The bed was ridiculously crowded with the two of them in it. Normally that would have bothered her, being crushed into a small space with another human being, but somehow his presence wasn't as much of an imposition as it might be. Still, if she didn't move, the arm she was lying on would soon begin to exhibit symptoms of impeded circulation, and Jemma abhorred the sensation of pins and needles.

"Would you mind...?" Jemma wriggled her torso, attempting to free her arm.

Grant clearly understood her unvoiced need, because she abruptly found herself lying flat on her back with him curled beside her. Well, to be accurate, curled **around** her, with her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder while his other arm rested lightly across her waist.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes, thanks."

"Bit cramped in here, isn't it?" Grant tipped his head back to look at the ceiling curving above them.

"A tad," she agreed. "I'm surprised you don't bash your head getting out of bed."

"I did. Now I duck. Learned the hard way."

His deadpan delivery was offset by the minimalist smirk that she was becoming very fond of.

"Anyway," he continued. "It's not the cabin that's the problem, it's the bed. Why didn't you go for the double mattress?"

Jemma tipped her head up to look around at the contents of her bunk: bookcases, bookcases, a desk, and then more bookcases. "I've never liked large mattresses. Seems like such a waste of space."

"Space that could be better used for recreating the Library of Congress?" he teased.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said severely. "The British Library, of course."

He laughed, a quiet rumble that she felt more than heard.

"Besides, when I chose this layout, I wasn't expecting to be sharing with an overgrown American."

"You had someone else in mind? An undersized Scotsman?"

Jemma scoffed. "Fitz and I..."

"Aren't like that," Grant cut her off. "I know. I was teasing."

That hadn't been what she intended to say, but it was sufficient for the moment.

"I didn't have anyone in mind," Jemma informed him. "I came here to work, not have international intrigues of the romantic kind."

Grant snorted. It should have been distasteful but, unexpectedly, Jemma found it to be one his more adorable, humanizing habits.

"International intrigues, huh? You and Skye have been drinking while reading Modesty Blaise novels, haven't you?"

Jemma raised an eyebrow, attempting to be as imperious as possible while naked. "What we do in the name of research is none of your business."

Grant smiled down at her, an open, affectionate expression that filled his entire face. Jemma felt a twinge in her chest that a more poetic woman might attribute to her heart contracting. As it was, the happiness she felt at seeing him grin filled her with warmth.

She reached for him, bringing his smile-curved lips down to hers.


	2. FitzWard

Written for RarePair Fest 2014, for angelette. The usual disclaimers apply - not my toys, just borrowing. Also, watch out for vaguely implied polyamory and lots of angst.

* * *

><p>"I'm not going anywhere."<p>

The expressions on Ward's face were only there for a few seconds, but it was long enough for Fitz to notice and catalogue the new data: pleased surprise followed by something darker. Almost immediately, though, the specialist assumed his normal emotionless mask and turned to the task at hand.

They worked well together, Fitz decided as he raced through the complex on Ward's heels. Ward was a bit of an automaton, certainly, but then again, Fitz was well aware of his own need for a grounding presence to balance his chaotic tendencies. Ward's slavish devotion to his programming, to rules and standards and practices, was a good contrast to Fitz's habit of pushing any button presented to him. Between them, they had proven to be quite adept at problem solving. They were a good team.

Ward stopped running and Fitz stumbled to a halt beside him. They were clear of the building, and Fitz could hear the faint whine of the Bus's approaching engines. He turned to congratulate Ward on a successful mission, and there it was again: surprise and more uncomfortable emotion, like sadness or regret. Fitz would be the first to admit that he wasn't a genius at figuring out what other people were thinking but this time the realization hit him like a concussion grenade.

Ward had expected the entire team to just walk away and leave him to die. He was actually surprised that they hadn't.

Fitz was grateful for the sudden blast of the Quinjet's downdraft; it gave him an excuse to wipe the tears from his eyes.

* * *

><p>Fitz fidgeted with the heavy ear protectors that were squeezing his skull.<p>

"Don't take those off."

Ward's voice, tinny in the in-ear speakers, made Fitz jump and drop his hands to his side. He knew better than to take off the muffs in the gun range. Of course he did. It was just that there was sweat pooling in his ear and it itched, dammit.

"I wasn't..." he said guiltily before realizing that Ward wasn't even looking at him. "I mean, what are you talking about?"

"You were." Ward turned from his target to smirk at Fitz. "I could see your shadow." He gestured to where an elongated silhouette stretched across the floor.

Fitz resisted his instinctive urge for shadow puppetry and glared at Ward instead.

"Now get over here," Ward ordered. "You're the one who wanted firearms training, which I agree you should have. If you're going to make me the perfect gun, you're have to know how to use one first."

Fitz rolled his eyes. "I know how to shoot a gun, Ward," he pointed out. "I passed my proficiencies, after all."

"You mean you managed to hit a paper target eight times out of ten, in a controlled environment," Ward countered. "That's not exactly what I'm talking about."

"I'll have you know that I hit the target all ten times," Fitz protested. "And anyway, I prefer controlled environments. Much easier to focus on what's relevant without extraneous variables cluttering up the system."

Ward stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head. "I have no idea why Coulson lets you go into the field at all."

"Neither do I," Fitz agreed. "But if I have to go, I might as well be able to protect myself. And Jemma."

Ward sighed. "You just need to learn how to stay out of trouble. I'm there to protect you." He gestured towards the shooting range. "Show me how you were taught to shoot."

Fitz stepped up to the counter and picked up the gun – a boring bullet-shooting gun – to begin the sequence he had been taught at the Academy. He had only fired three rounds when he heard Ward's voice.

"Stop, please. Just stop." There was an unmistakable hint of laughter.

Fitz put down the gun and turned to face Ward. "Is there something you'd like to say?" he asked. "Because I believe you'll see I hit the target with every shot."

Ward nodded. "Yes, you did. Good job." It only sounded a tad patronizing. "But your form is terrible. We have to fix that." He stepped towards Fitz. "First, you've got to get comfortable with the gun. Take of your ear protectors. We won't be firing anything for a while."

"Thank God!" Fitz pried the horrible muffs off and rubbed his sweaty ears. "As soon as I get back to the lab, I'm making a pair of these things that are actually comfortable."

"You'll be the first," Ward said with a smile. "We could train without them. Get you used to how loud guns can be."

Fitz grimaced. "I don't think so. I'm well aware of the danger of concussive blasts in confined spaces and I prefer my tympanic membrane intact, thank you."

"Of course you do." Ward's face assumed a variant of its 'Fitz is jabbering on about something I don't understand' expression, though his eyes were crinkled as though by a smile. "What brought on this interest in guns, anyway?"

"I told you, I want to be able to protect myself and Jemma. And Skye," he added as an afterthought. Skye generally took care of herself, but it was impolite to dismiss her safety.

"And I told you that I'm here to protect you," Ward said, all amusement gone from his face.

"Obviously I know that," Fitz replied. "But I don't want to have to rely on you."

Ward stared down at him for a long moment, and then visibly shook of whatever emotion he was hiding behind that blank face of his. "Fine. If you're going to protect Simmons and Skye, you're going to need to learn to hold the gun differently. Here, turn around."

Fitz did as he was told. Ward stepped forward until he was standing right behind Fitz. The specialist was so tall, his breath ruffled Fitz's hair.

"Now, pick up the gun with your dominant hand and extend it straight out from the shoulder. Good."

Fitz nearly dropped the gun again when Ward's arm swung up to press against his. The movement pressed the other man's torso and hip against him. Ward was a very warm person.

"Relax, Fitz. You're not going to be of much use to Simmons or Skye if you drop your weapon. Now bring your other arm up."

"I don't even want to be holding this thing," Fitz said, the sensation of Ward's left arm wrapping around him setting off his babble function. "I just want to make sure that I can use it if I have to. I want to be able to take care of myself so that you don't always have to keep watch over me in the field. You have more important things to do than to worry about me."

There was a long and, for Fitz at least, awkward pause. Then Ward took a small step forward until he was flush against Fitz' back. He snugged his grip on Fitz's hands and tightened his arms.

"That's thoughtful of you, Fitz."

Fitz felt a warm flush spread through him at the sensation of Ward's warm breath on his neck.

"But I want you to know that I'm always going to watch over you in the field," Ward continued. "I'll always worry about you." He pressed his lips to the sensitive skin behind Fitz's ear. The warmth in Fitz's chest sparked into a fire. "And I'll always protect you."

* * *

><p>The mattress gave slightly as Grant sat. Fitz shifted slightly to make room for the other man to lie down.<p>

"Euch," he exclaimed. "Your hair is dripping on me."

Ward shook his head, spraying more water onto Fitz's bare chest. He laughed before settling into bed.

"You're going to make the pillow damp," Fitz pointed out. He grabbed a corner of the sheet and wiped water drops from his tablet screen.

"You're not short on pillows," Grant pointed out.

He wasn't wrong. Fitz was rather fond of pillows of all sizes and softnesses. It saved him the time and both of manipulating a substandard pillow into whatever configuration his body craved. It also had the unfortunate side effect of crowding the bed to the point where two adult men filled the space with barely an inch to spare.

Of course, a lot of that was down to Grant's physique. He was much more physically imposing than Fitz's usual type. Not that he really had a type; he just happened to end up in bed with short, slim people – people who's strength was in their intellect, not their biceps.

It wasn't that he wasn't attracted to brawny types, but the twin challenges of opportunity and mutual interest had always held him back. That's why this situation with Grant had taken him by surprise: opportunity wasn't an issue when you were sealed into an admittedly spacious airplane much of the time, but mutual interest? That had been unexpected.

Grant rolled over and pulled his towel from the chair where it sat, folded.

"There," he said, spreading the towel over the pillow. "Is that better?"

The look on his face was so full of false innocence Fitz had to laugh.

"Yes, fine. Thank you. Though it would be easier if you didn't come in here with wet hair in the first place."

"I thought you'd prefer it if I showered after that mission. I was a little sweaty," Grant explained. "Oh, and there was all that yellow goop that Simmons was so interested in. Figured I'd scrub that off."

Fitz rolled on his side, propping his head on one hand, and stared down at Grant.

"You've an answer for everything, don't you?" he asked. "You're what my Gran would call a silver-tounged de'il with your twisty, twisty words."

He regretted his teasing when Grant's face went blank, a habit that Fitz had identified as a defensive trait. He covered Grant's clasped fingers with his free hand.

"I was talking about your training, Ward," he explained.

"I know." Grant sighed. He shifted over until his head was tucked on Fitz's arm so he could kiss him on the cheek. "But your grandmother is right. She wouldn't be very impressed with me, I guess."

"She'd've loved you," Fitz grinned, returning the kiss. "Gran had a soft spot for sleekit fellows."

"What nows?"

"Charming liars. Cheats. Actually, the fact that you lie for the good guys probably makes you too nice for her," Fitz reflected. "She always told me I was painfully honest. I think she was embarrassed."

Grant turned his head into Fitz's shoulder with a soft laugh.

"You are painfully honest," he agreed. "It's one of my favourite things about you. You're not at all sle..."

"Sleekit."

"You're not sleekit. You tell the truth, always. Even when it would be better you didn't." Grant smiled up at him. "It's sexy, your integrity."

"Sexy, eh?" Fitz waggled his eyebrows. "Who knew?"

Grant reached up and stroked a thumb along Fitz's jaw.

"Sexy, and admirable," he said, his face serious. "My very first time in the field trained the integrity out of me."

Fitz was tempted to laugh at the hyperbole, but there was a sadness in Grant's eyes that stopped him. Instead he gently teased "They gave you a GPS and made you throw away your moral compass?"

Grant's smile was twisted. "If I ever had one."

This time Fitz did laugh. "Come off it, Ward." He smiled down at Grant. "Well, fine, if yours is gone, I'm sure someone could engineer a replacement."

"Well, if anyone could build me a new one, it would be you," Grant said. He rolled onto his side and pulled Fitz close for a deep kiss. When he pulled back, his voice was rough but his eyes were soft. "Until then, I'll rely on you to keep me honest."


	3. FitzSimmonsWard

Written for RarePair Fest 2014, for angelette. The usual disclaimers apply - not my toys, just borrowing. Also, watch out for vaguely implied polyamory and lots of angst.

* * *

><p>"You were right about one thing: I wouldn't like the real you."<p>

"I know that you care about us, Ward."

"Fitz may never be the same again."

"Who are you, without him?"

Grant Ward curled himself up into crunch after crunch. He counted out loud to drown out the voices in his head. It wasn't working very well. Faces filled his mind when he closed his eyes. Skye, full of fury and revulsion. May and Coulson, all banked anger and disdain. Fitz and Jemma, eyes wide with disbelief and fear.

He had expected to think of Skye when they locked him in this cage. To his surprise, every member of the team made appearances in his nightmares, both waking and sleeping. At first it was their anger, their fear and hatred, that haunted him. As the weeks passed, though, it was smaller memories that tickled at his mind: Skye's graceful gestures over the ops tabletop; the concentrated power of May's Tai Chi forms; Coulson's deadpan sarcasm breaking up a dull stakeout; Fitz's sparkling grin when he presented a new piece of gear; Jemma's hands soothing away the sting of a wound.

He knew that the isolation was an enhanced interrogation technique. Grant had been trained to cope with this type of situation. There were techniques to make the mind less vulnerable to collapse. He wasn't bothering with any of them; he hadn't bothered in weeks. What was the point?

None of Coulson's team had come to see Grant. None of the S.H.I.E.L.D interrogators gave away any information about the status of the team or the remainder of Garrett's inner circle. Grant fed them information gradually: enough to keep the interrogation bearable, but not so much it would seem suspicious. It was a delicate balance and the effort of maintaining it was the only thing holding him together. Once the information ran out, he was prepared to give in to the isolation and live inside his memories.

"Two hundred," he announced to no one.

He lay flat for a moment before rolling over and starting his push-ups count. The floor was the same non-colour as the ceiling. The same non-colour as the walls, and the door, and the three smooth-cornered extrusions that served as table, seat, and bed frame. These gray-beige surfaces were the screens on which his mind projected images of the team: May and Skye exchanging quiet smiles over tea; Coulson geeking out over vintage technology; Jemma and Fitz laughing at an obscure science joke.

Sixty-seven push-ups into his routine, Grant paused. The light in the room had brightened, signaling that the door would soon open. He had just enough time to scramble to his feet and straighten his jumpsuit before the lock clicked and the door swung open.

The tip of walking cane pushed through the opening first, followed by a slight figure dressed in corduroy and a cardigan. Grant drew in a startled breath as Leo Fitz looked up and met his eyes. Before he could speak, Jemma Simmons stepped into the room.

"Hello, Ward."

Grant stared.

"I told you this was a bad idea," Fitz muttered.

"Hush, Fitz. This is important for your recovery."

"Physiotherapy is important for my recovery," Fitz retorted. "This is a mistake. Look at him – he's not going to talk to us."

"Of course he is," Jemma said calmly. "Aren't you, Ward?"

He nodded, though he was still too stunned to speak. Fitz and Simmons were alive and, cane aside, well. It was more than he could have ever hoped for, after what he did to them.

"Well, fine. You talk to him." Fitz sat at the foot of the bed. "I don't feel like it any more."

"If you insist." Jemma reached into the folds of her skirt. "Ward, they let me bring you your water."

She held out the bottle. Ward reached for it and noticed that both she and Fitz flinched when he moved. He masked his hurt by unscrewing the cap and taking a long drink. When he lowered the bottle, he caught Fitz and Jemma having a wordless conversation. From the look on Fitz's face, it was an argument.

"Simmons thinks I need to ask you why you dumped us in the ocean to die," Fitz announced, still looking at Jemma.

"That's not what I said, Fitz. I said that we need to deal with how Ward betrayed us. Part of that is confronting him."

"Confrontation. Right."

Abruptly, they both turned to face Grant. He almost smiled. It was such a typical FitzSimmons gesture, and it made him nostalgic for his time on the lab.

"Ward," Fitz said, looking him square in the face, "Grant. I want you to know that I was incredibly hurt when I found out that you were Hydra. But I might have been able to forgive you for that, if you'd had a reason for betraying everyone who cared about you."

Grant refused to give in to the pain and hope he was feeling.

"What we can't forgive you for," Jemma continued, reaching out to grip Fitz's shoulder, "what we will never, ever forgive you for, is what you did to Fitz and I. You used us, you manipulated us emotionally, you abandoned us when you'd promised to protect us, and then you murdered us."

Grant opened his mouth to object but Fitz cut him off.

"You murdered us, Ward. You didn't know we'd survive. You thought we wouldn't. So maybe we're not dead, but that doesn't change the fact that you meant to kill us."

"I'm sorry."

Fitz choked on a laugh. Simmons just sighed.

"I am," Grant insisted. "I know it doesn't help, but I mean it."

"It doesn't," Jemma acknowledged. "You really hurt us. Not just the murdering."

"I don't know what else to say. It wasn't all manipulation, though. I did - I do - care about you," he met her eyes unflinchingly.

"And about Fitz?" she asked.

He looked over at the blond man, who was examining the floor with great intensity.

"I care about him, too," Grant admitted. "You knew about him and me?"

"Of course we knew about each other," Fitz snapped, glaring up at him. "We share everything. We would have shared you if you'd wanted."

Grant had a sudden vision of himself, Jemma beneath him and Fitz behind him. Heat pooled in his groin even as his breath caught. He squeezed his eyes closed and took a moment to compose himself.

"I didn't know," he said. "I wasn't trying to hurt you. I want you to believe that."

"How are we supposed to do that?" Jemma asked. "After the way you treated us, I would find it hard to believe you if you told me organic compounds contain carbon. We trusted you. We trusted you to protect us and you betrayed us in the most extreme way possible."

"I don't know what else to say," Grant said hopelessly. "I care for both of you. I am so very sorry."

"You should know that I cared about you, but he *loved* you." Jemma's voice was tight. "You're going to have to do a lot more than just apologize before we could even think of forgiving you, Ward."

She leaned down and tucked a hand under Fitz's arm. "Come along, Fitz. You were right, this was a bad idea." Her voiced hardened. "We're done here."

The scientists stood as the door clicked open. They turned their backs on Grant and left the room without looking back. He stared at the closed door for several minutes, reviewing the encounter over and over again. Finally, his legs gave way and he slid down the wall.

For the first time since he had been locked up in his cage, Grant Ward wept.


End file.
